ROSETTE’S POV
Magnus Archwood danced like a man who expected to be admired for it.
His hand rested on the curve of my waist with practiced precision, guiding me through the steps with the confidence of someone who’d learned ballroom etiquette before he learned to walk.
The string quartet played something classical and forgettable while we moved beneath the crystal chandeliers, and every eye in the Winter Moon Foundation Gala tracked our progress across the floor.
The Sinclair heiress dancing with the Alpha of the Western Territories. Tongues would wag for weeks.
“You move beautifully.” Magnus’s voice was cultured honey, smooth and warm against my ear. “Though I suspect you do everything beautifully, Miss Sinclair.”
“Flattery.” I kept my expression pleasant, neutral, the mask I’d perf
